


And I, You.

by bakerstreetashtray



Category: GHOST 1990, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Johnlock, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Ghost the film, Ghost the musical, Ghost!Lock, M/M, Sherlock AU, Sherlock/ghost, ghost - Freeform, ghost/sherlock, ghostlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:43:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakerstreetashtray/pseuds/bakerstreetashtray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Crossover with BBC Sherlock and 'GHOST' (1990 with Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore)</p><p>I've always loved this film, and it was amazing to me how well they fit in together. You don't need to have watched the film to read this.</p><p>Sherlock and John are young, happy, successful and moving into a new apartment. When a tragedy tears them apart, both think that the end is in sight. But could there be more to the terrible catastrophe than first thought?<br/>[BONUS CHAPTER!]<br/> </p><p>tumblr: baker-street-ashtray</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oh, My Love

**JOHN**

The number is 221b, and inside it's bloody perfect.

 

 Spacious and light, with great tube links and within walking distance to a hospital - I'm hoping to get back to work when I can, and of course Sherlock can't live without the morgue. But that isn't all. 

The place is empty and clean as a whistle. So much.. potential, so much room for us to grow. Together, finally. We'd met as roommates, sharing a dingy flat in East London. I was a Doctor, retired from the Army and had no idea what I was getting into. A year of batty experiments and chasing him around on crime scenes - not to mention saving his bacon a couple of times - and I realised that I'd only gone and fallen for him. Luckily, he just went and fell for me too. Funny. Didn't even know I swung that way. Must just be him.

But I've never been happier.

"John? Where d'ya want these ones?"  
Craig's voice snaps me from my reverie and I shake my head, a huge smile on my face as I turn to him. He's one of Sherlock's colleagues and we regularly have him round for dinner or drinks. He's one of the few that can put up with him, and I appreciate the moving help. Sherlock saunters up the stairs after him and my heart skips a beat. Of course, his arms are empty of boxes but his eyes light up at the sight of our new home, and I couldn't ask for any more.

"Put them by the window, Craig." He drawls, his usual baritone somewhat awed as he walks into the centre of the room and turns on the spot, evaluating the place.

"Perfect, isn't it?" I breathe, and he nods and takes my hand. Craig chuckles and sets down the boxes, giving a mock irritated mutter of "Lovebirds.." as he heads back out to the van. I let Sherlock's hand fall and head over to the vast space in front of the wall, the wallpaper a black and white Victorian print. "Look at all the space! You can do your experiments without contaminating dinner."  
I hold out my arms, spreading my fingertips and basking in happiness. The future. The promises. Our own place. It should have cost a bomb, but he called in some favours. Of course he did.

 

His shoes clack against the bare wooden floors, and in a few steps he is behind me, hands slipping around my waist and pulling me back against him. I sigh contentedly and lean into him, our clothes still damp from the sheeting rain outside. Poor Craig, I think. We should go and help with the boxes..  
But before I can pull myself away, Sherlock's fingers grab at mine and he turns me to face him. He hasn't said much, but I can tell just from his face that he's loving this just as much as I am. His eyes are alight and the shadow of a smile seems to play constantly on his lips. I feel a lump in my throat, stood there with him.  
"I love you." I say, my fingers clasping his against his chest.  
"And I, you." He returns, quietly, fixing me with one of his looks. My mouth goes dry and I lean in to kiss him, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at his customary response.

The rain pounds on the windows - our windows - and Craig appears in the stairwell, sopping wet and laughing as he lugs in another couple of boxes. We barely notice him, so tied up in each other.   
"Guys!" He calls, and we reluctantly break apart, though the smiles remain on our lips.

 

\--

It takes us four and a half hours, but we finally have everything inside and are unpacked enough to survive for the night. We sent Craig home before it got dark, myself thanking him profusely - though of course he just rolled his eyes and waved, wished us luck. Sherlock and I eat Chinese take-away from plastic cartons, sitting on the floor of our new home. We have a sofa of course, but that too is new, not to mention covered in boxes. Neither of us mind. We are too busy discussing what to do with each room of the new place - or in Sherlock's case, which experiments are going to go where. I don't plan to let him have his way, though I like to watch him talk about it. He becomes animated when he gets excited about something, and I can't bear to ruin it by explaining that never,  _ever_ should human 'specimens' be kept by the toaster. We eat, we listen to an old paint-spattered radio, and we talk.  
It's midnight by the time we're all finished, and I'm absolutely knackered. Still, I can't sleep yet. The place is too new, I'm not used to it and besides, Sherlock won't come to bed until at least 3AM.  
He already wants to get started on an experiment and mutes my protests with puppy eyes and a gentle kiss that just grazes my jaw. Of course, I break. I always break. He starts getting things out of boxes and when I return from my shower, there is a tripod set up with a large mixing bowl atop it and several beakers full of whatever-it-is on the new hardwood floors.  
He leaps up when he sees me, and says that he too wants a shower. That I am to start the experiment in his absence and - wait, what? I start to protest and then he takes me in his arms for a few moments, pressing his nose to my wet hair before leaning down to kiss me once, twice, three times. I am breathless and he knows he's won. Again.

He leaves me with the barest instructions and sets off for his shower. I settle myself on a cardboard box behind the tripod and roll up the sleeves of my dressing gown. Of course, within a few minutes, it's all gone tits up. I was fairly certain he said to mix the blue liquid with the water-that-isn't-actually-water, though in hindsight it could have been the purple. I'm too tired to think properly, and before I know it, the mixing bowl is filling with a bluish foam that probably isn't the outcome that Sherlock has been looking for. 

Luckily, he's back - he hurries over to sit behind me on the cardboard box and I chuckle, expecting the bloody thing to collapse under the weight. He gives an exaggerated sigh at the state of his experiment, and leans forward to take my hands which are quickly becoming lost in the foam.   
"I leave you alone for five minutes.." He growls by my ear, and I shiver, which makes him give a throaty chuckle as he twines his fingers around mine. The radio voices cease and a song begins to play. It's slow and old, and I think I might have heard it in my younger years. I don't know if Sherlock recognises it or not, but he stays surprisingly silent, the admonishing I expected for ruining the experiment not seeming to appear. The blue foam only seems to grow, and soon it is spilling over the bowl and onto the hardwood, but strangely I don't seem to care anymore.  
 _'Oh my love, my darling, I've hungered for your touch..'_  
Sherlock's wet fingers have left mine, are stroking along my wrists and forearms, and I turn my head to look at him, only one thought shamelessly on my mind.  
 _'And time goes by, so slowly, and time can do so much..'_  
Both of our arms are becoming slick with the foam, and it only seems to be making things more intense. His eyes find my lips, and I can't resist closing the space between us, his slender fingers still tracing wet patterns on the skin of my arms.  
 _'Lonely rivers flow, to the sea, to the sea, to the open arms of the sea..'_  


Sherlock breaks the kiss, and a guttural sigh catches in my throat. The corner of his mouth quirks, and he takes my hand, my fingers slick in his. Slowly we stand, and he leads me back to our new bedroom. The foam could be flooding the apartment, ruining the new sofa but I don't care, don't care about anything right now. Just him. Just Sherlock. Our eyes meet as he closes the bedroom door on the muffled radio song, and our eyes are both softly intense and hungry with anticipation.  
 _'Lonely rivers sigh, wait for me, wait for me, I'll be coming home, wait for me..'_  



	2. My Darling

**SHERLOCK**

 

It is the morning after moving day, and as per usual I cannot get John out of my mind, though even moreso after yesterday evening. Of course, I had known that he would mess up the experiment. I had hoped that it would lead to an argument about mess on the new floors and furniture; eventually to lead to an impassioned reconciliation, perhaps on said furniture. But the outcome had actually been rather preferable. Craig and I are in the lift at New Scotland Yard, and I am smiling without realising it. The lift is rather crowded, and I feel a few odd looks. Evidently, it is not a common occurrence to see a smile on my face.  
"So, Sherlock - you still got that rash then?" Craig asks, much too loudly. I give a half roll of my eyes and take his lead.  
"Oh yes. Still rather irritating. The doctor says it's extremely contagious."  
"Oh, contagious huh? How so?"  
"In every way, really. Something as simple as a touch.." I feign a trip, planting a hand on the woman in front, who turns to stare at me in horror. "Oh, yes - terribly sorry." I touch as many of the passengers as possible, feeling them all shrink away under my supposedly clumsy hands.  
The doors open, and we sweep out calmly, before Craig collapses into laughter and I give a wry smile. I have to take these opportunities when they come; my usual working day is spent in the morgue, and the laughs come far and few between there.

 

\--

 

I am working with Molly Hooper today, and the day passes delightfully quickly. I am pleased; John and I have a dinner date tonight. We decided against takeaway for a second night in a row, and I am treating him with the money from a case advance. My occupation does have its benefits, after all. Today, Molly and I work on a few discrepancies in the New Scotland Yard data base, mainly consisting of murders. It appears that the files for several have been wiped, or are at least half blank. One of the higher authorities asked for me personally, I believe. It happens often, that. I begin to get antsy at 5pm, and am keen to get off. Craig sees me and sighs, offering to finish up on the case files. I gratefully accept and provide him with my access code, before hurrying off to the locker rooms to get changed into a fresh shirt.  
Ten minutes later and I am suitably pleased with my appearance, and Molly makes a comment, though that is unsurprising. I check the computers and am pleased with Craig's progress, thanking him again. I have to change my access password and apologise, as no doubt we will be working on this together again. I tuck the new code into my wallet and offer to invite him to dinner with us but he gives me a rather odd look and so I roll my eyes and leave to the sound of he and Molly giggling together.

 

\--

 

I arrive promptly to the restaurant, though John is already seated at a table. He is wearing a three piece suit and I am rather taken aback. My crisp white shirt and customary black trousers must seem a tad underdressed, but he doesn't seem to mind, shaking his head as he sees me.  
"God, do you have to look like that all the time?" He asks somewhat breathlessly and I smirk, feeling instantly more at ease. He rises and I kiss him, the action sending a flutter through me that I am still beginning to get used to.   
"You look.. fantastic, John." I say, and the compliment sounds odd from my lips. Still, he smiles and I feel smug at the flush that settles on his cheeks.  
We order dinner - a rib eye steak for John, a fillet of dover sole for myself - and he begins to speak in earnest, telling me about his day and unpacking our things at the new flat. I listen contentedly, again unable to keep that blasted smile from my lips as he complains about having no suitable area to stash my chemicals and specimens. I remind him that only yesterday he was celebrating the abundance of space in the new place. He narrows his eyes at me but moments later we are laughing, and he clutches at my hand across the table.   
We share a bottle of wine, and John hooks his arm through mine as we finish up and leave the restaurant, laughing as I recount the incident in the lift this morning. His eyes seem slightly glazed as I talk him through the missing murder files as we walk, and he interrupts me as I begin discussing the possible suspects.  
"I love you, you know."   
I raise my eyebrows, my mouth cracking into a rather amused smile, though my words are soft when I reply. "And I, you."  
He rolls his eyes with a groan and my brow crinkles in bemusement. "What?"  
"'And I, you.' You always say that. Sometimes I need to hear it, Sherlock."  
"Need to hear what?" I ask, an incredulously amused tone in my voice.  
"Those three words? You know." He shoots me a pointed look. "I  _know_  you know."  
"Oh." I roll my eyes, "Can't I just show you, rather than spelling it out? It does seem rather unnecessary."  
He punches me in the arm and I shake my head, a retort on the tip of my tongue as the gruff voice calls out.

"Give me your wallet."

John's fingers tighten on my arm, and I hear all the mirth drain out of his voice as he mutters weakly beside me. "Oh, Christ.."  
The man appears from the darkness of an alley, holding a gun that is aimed directly at my chest. I instinctively take a step in front of John, and the man, dressed in dirty and worn clothes, speaks again.

"I said give me the fucking wallet."

I am thinking, I am analysing this man and trying to find our best way out of this. Of course, I should surrender the wallet but then I have several important NSY codes in there, not to mention Mycroft and Lestrade's ID cards and almost a hundred pounds in cash.

"Let's talk about this."  
I say calmly, certain that my face betrays no shock or fear. I extend a hand. "Give me the gun."

"How 'bout you give me the fuckin' wallet?"  
He begins to pace towards us and I push John backwards, backing away from this imbecile as far as possible, but he will not be stopped. My only defence is to snatch at the gun; he may shoot us anyway, and John would most definitely be a disposable witness. The struggle begins as soon as my hand flies out to bat away the barrel, the man lunging for the pocket of my suit jacket.

There is a roaring in my ears, and the man is strong but I am using my balance to my advantage and matching his moves. John is yelling, running towards us and I throw out a hand to try and keep him back.  
"John-"  
A shot fires and it is loud, so very loud in my ears. I wince at the flash and the man bolts. I begin to chase him out of sheer adrenaline, relieved that I am not hurt - but John.. John..

 

I turn back, and John is crouching on the pavement, leaning over another man in a white shirt. The white shirt is flowering red with blood, the chest sodden and John is yelling, wailing almost like a dying animal.  
"Help us! Please, somebody help us! Sherlock-"  
I hear my name and try and come to my senses, dashing over to provide assistance. And then I see. It is me.

The man on the floor is me, and I am him.  
I look down at myself but my own shirt is still white, and my heart hammers in my chest. This is ridiculous and illogical - how are there two of me? It doesn't make sense. 

I try to put my hand on John's shoulder, but I fall straight through. I land on the concrete beside.. myself.. and two people have run over to John, are calling ambulances and trying to pull him off the.. my.. body.

I stand again and raise my hands to my head, not comprehending, not believing. 

"No, no please!" John is saying as the people try and pry him away from the body. I realise now that he has been trying to perform CPR on me, though of course it will not work. I am dead. It is me and I am dead. 

 

"No.." I say too, though no one can hear me. "No.. John!" I call, and my voice is ragged.

 

I am dead. I, Sherlock Holmes have died in a common street brawl.   
There is blood pooling on my chest as I lie on the concrete.

 

I am dead.

John yells, and I yell. We cry together, though we are apart. So far apart.


	3. Hungered For Your Touch

**SHERLOCK**

 

I do not choose to follow John to the hospital, but it is as if I am tied to him, compelled to be his orbiting moon. He sobs in the ambulance, and I yell, the illogical nature of it all so perturbing and I catch sight of my body and feel myself paling.

 

They try to use the shock paddles on me, but they do not work. John screams for them to continue, and the paramedics try their damnedest.  I am pronounced dead on arrival to the hospital, and John collapses in the corridor. He is ushered away by a nurse, and a voice says "You're new here, aren't you?"  
I turn, bleary-eyed to the man, who looks at me sympathetically. I have no words, I cannot say a thing, which is unlike me.  
"You're dead." He says simply, "But you're stuck here. A ghost. Unlucky, pal. You must have some 'unfinished business'."

I can speak, finally, though my voice is ragged and weak. "What?"  
The man rolls his eyes. He is an older gentleman, and dressed in a pin striped suit that looks straight out of the 1970s.   
"I've been hanging around for near about forty years." He drawls, propping one hand on his hip. "Waiting for my wife. She's upstairs, in intensive care."  
I still can't quite comprehend what is going on. It seems only seconds ago that John and I were eating dinner, discussing his day.  
"Look - look, watch!" The man calls excitedly, pointing to a room behind us. We are in Accident and Emergency, and medics are trying to revive a young woman. "She's a goner." He sighs morbidly, but he flaps his hands. "Still. Watch!"  
As the life support machine rings out with a monotonous beep and the doctors take off their masks, a white figure rises from the body in a cloud of shining light, and I have to squint just to keep looking at it.  
"Lucky son of a bitch." The man sighs, turning back to me. "See, she's gone up. You don't wanna see 'em when they go  _down._ "

"I'm dead."  
I say weakly, still trying to come to terms with this ridiculous.. this illogical.. I close my eyes.  
"He yours?" The man asks, cocking a thumb at John, who is being guided shakily back out of the hospital by an orderly. I nod, and I feel the same compelling pull. I have to follow him. I have to stay with John.   
John and I were supposed to be together.   
I am dead.

 

**JOHN**

I don't feel alive. I can't feel anything, not really. Nothing apart from the ragged pain tearing a hole in my chest. It's been three weeks and I haven't left the flat. We still have boxes piled around, boxes that I never got to unpack. Boxes that maybe I never will. Boxes and boxes of Sherlock's things that now have no place in this life. 

Craig pops in now and again, and he tries to put on a brave face for me. He always tries to get me out of the flat, but it's too soon. I can't do anything. I don't want to do anything. I still talk to him like he's here. Like he used to do with me, even when I'd been gone for a week. But it's different. He isn't coming back. He's gone. Sherlock's dead.

 

I picked up his shirts from the dry cleaners, though I don't know why. I had to get two different tube lines across London to our old place to do it. Mr Reynolds said to say hello and I started bloody crying in the shop. Poor bloke didn't know what  to do with me.

 

I've written him letters every day this week, but I'll never send them and he'll never see them. I put them in envelopes anyway, just seal them up and put them on the mantelpiece. Craig reached for one the other day, and I yelled. He looked at me like I was mad, but he put his arms around me anyway. It must be hard. He's lost a good friend. 

A few people sent cards. I haven't put them up though. It seems daft to only have half the furniture out, but to have condolence cards on the shelves. And I don't want it to keep hitting me. That Sherlock is dead. It does anyway though. Every morning. Throughout the days. Sometimes I forget for maybe five minutes, and then it comes back, hitting me like a ton of bloody bricks. Sherlock's dead.

 

I can't remember when I last ate, but I can usually sleep a few hours in the evenings. 

Craig's here now, and he nags me to come outside, to get some fresh air. I go, begrudgingly. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and I look like hell. But I go. I don't care, now. What does it really matter, anyway?

**SHERLOCK**

The past three weeks have been utter torture, to say the least. I sit with John. I lay with John. I itch to wipe John's tears and make him a cup of tea, but I cannot. I hear him read the letters aloud and they break me. I am broken now, as well as dead.  
I feel grateful that he has Craig to keep him eating, to keep him alive. I certainly can't. I can't even keep myself alive, evidently. Mycroft sends a card but does not stop by. The same is true of all of our friends. I imagine that they do not want to be reminded of the pain, but often I wonder if they truly care at all.

 

I plead with John to take better care of himself but he does not listen, he cannot hear. I storm around the flat soundlessly, my fingers passing through anything I touch. I make snide remarks when he talks aloud, and I curse at the postman when he arrives. Despite my efforts, nobody hears me. I am dead, and I cannot leave John even if I want to. I am tied to him deeply somehow, but his grief is another slow death. I would gladly take another bullet to end this

 

Craig arrives to take John outside and I thank him, thank him profusely but he cannot hear either. This is all very irritating.   
The door has barely been closed for a few minutes when I notice that I am still here. I have not been drawn after John this time and it both intrigues and worries me. It is new.  
And then the door opens.  
I suck in a breath as the man enters - the man that killed me. My murderer. I begin to yell, to scream at him, I claw at him though of course he feels nothing. And then I stop. I watch and listen. He is looking for something.

A voice resonates back through the front door.

"I'm sorry Craig, I thought I could do it. I just can't.  I'm sorry."

 

It is John. John is back, John is opening the front door and John is stepping back inside.  _No_ , I yell,  _don't! Get back outside; he's in here! He'll kill you too, John._  
I won't have it. I won't.  
The man has ducked into the bedroom, and John walks into the kitchen. I hear the kettle, and the man reappears, creeping around the flat with a knife drawn. My heart is hammering in my chest, if indeed I have a heart, or a chest. I am scared for him, so scared for him.  
 _You get out!_ I yell furiously at our intruder, standing inches from his face, _You get out and you leave him alone! Haven't you done enough?  
_ John's footsteps approach the kitchen door and the man ducks out of the front entrance, just in time to go unnoticed. I run my hands through my hair. I am a mess of nerves. It is quite unlike me, but then, so is being dead. Up until this point, anyway.

 

I am furious; uncharacteristically confused and furious. I try and follow the man through the front door, but I cannot seem to pass through it. He is getting away, I think exasperatedly. He is getting away and he'll come back and he'll kill my John. I am useless.  
 _No._  
All at once, I slip through the wood and it is a most unpleasant sensation, like stepping through molten sandpaper. But I am out.  
I follow the man, screaming obscenities and for vengeance. 


	4. A Long Lonely Time

**SHERLOCK**

 

Every mile I follow him is a mile that I am further from John, and it both disturbs and bemuses me that whatever powers are behind this are allowing this deviation. The past three weeks have not only been spent wracked with grief for my own life and watching John disintegrate into nothingness - I have faced a philosophical dilemma, questioning every world view that I ever possessed.  
Am I in purgatory? Is there a heaven and hell - is that what the man in the hospital referred to as going 'up' and 'down'? I see now, that life is not all science, as I was led to believe. There is more. It is nauseatingly complex and utterly astonishing, and yet I cannot see any more than I have seen already. My knowledge is stalled, frozen with my presence in the flat.

 

I have had three weeks to dwell on my sorry sentient state, but now is not the time. I must admit, I feel a slight relief at being away from John and his all consuming grief. It tears at me, tears me into pieces and I am forced to watch as he allows himself to ebb away. 

Now, the murderer stalks into the tube station and I follow him onto a train. I glare at him from across the carriage, my arms folded across my chest. He is dressed smartly, not at all how he looked on the night of my death. His hair is swept back from his forehead and he appears calm, even bored. A clever facade then, though hardly a master of disguise. I can hardly bear to watch him, which is rather apt, because at that moment I am thrown backwards by a great force and go flying through the carriages, my hands phasing through seats and passengers as I try to scramble for purchase.

When I glance back up, I see the face of a young man contorted with rage and he is staring right at me. I assume that he is a ghost, like me. Logic still rules me.  
"This is my train!" He roars pettily, and he reaches down, picking up bags and coffee cups to throw at me. I am both offended and impressed, and I want to ask him how he can possibly move things, pick them up.. but he does not allow me to get a word in between his attacks.

I have to run back to my murderer, to desperately try to stay with him as the ghost screams at me. Evidently, we ghosts have territory. I am learning.  
Exasperated, I am somewhat relieved when the murderer hops off at the next stop, and I follow him under a last barrage of flying newspaper from my new friend.

 

We reach a terrible neighbourhood, and he heads into a block of flats. Soon he is unlocking a door, though I am taken aback when I follow him inside. It is decorated immaculately and expensively furnished. Either he likes the rough area, is unworried by it, or it is a temporary ruse, I deduce. I am still furious, indignant about having my life taken from me and now from this intrusion into John's life - when he is grieving, no less.

 

The man perches himself on his leather sofa and takes out his mobile, making a call.  
"Yeah, Boss. Moran."  
I can only hear his side of the phonecall, and stand, fists clenched by the door, listening in an irate silence.  
"I couldn't get it... That fucking idiot came home, what was I supposed to do? Look, I'm going back.. Of course I'll get it.. Fuck.. I'm sorry.. I'm sorry - look, I'll get it okay?"  
Going back. He is going back. He will break into the flat again, and John is still in danger. I see now that it was not a simple accident, and somehow there is some despicable plot involved. There is nothing I can do.

 

I soar through the closed door, anger spilling out of every pore and I am shaking with fury, if ghosts can indeed tremble. After a few minutes, I find myself outside a row of shops. 'Psychic' glows above one, and I feel drawn to the place. It disgusts me; I am aware that these people are charlatans and extort grieving people. But I have no other option, if indeed this person has an ounce of clairvoyant talent. I cannot let John be hurt.

 

As soon as I drift inside, the smell of burning incense almost overwhelms me, and I grimace at the beaded doorways and overhanging sheaths of coloured fabric. A low, tinkling soundtrack plays from a disguised stereo in the corner, and I sense that the proprietor is going for a 'mysterious' and 'alluring' vibe. It is as disgusting as I predicted.  
"I'm sensing something.. is it.. your husband?"  
A woman sits at the table in the centre of the room. She is dark-haired and I suppose, conventionally attractive. Her blue eyes are large and alight as she whispers to the elderly hispanic woman sat across from her.   
"My Julio?"  
"Yes. Yes, it's Julio."  
I roll my eyes as she waves her fingers with a flourish over a crystal ball on the table. I am wasting my time here. It is all smoke, mirrors and guesswork. Abysmal. Disappointing.

"My Julio! How is he?!"  
"I'm sensing another.. A woman, now!"  
"A woman?"  
"Yes, yes... Oh, it's too difficult. Two spirits.. Oh, I can't do it!" She presses a hand to her forehead, and the customer fumbles in her bag for more money and slaps a twenty down on the table. The 'psychic' makes a miraculous recovery.  
"Ahh, yes.. I see now.." She croons, and I cannot hold back for a second longer.

"Utterly ridiculous." I spit, and her eyes snap open.  
"What?" She says, rather plainly, and her eyes are searching bemusedly around the room as if looking for the source of the sound. I suck in a breath, my eyes widening. Evidently, she cannot see me, but this may be something.

I am frozen in my surprise for a moment and pause to consider my next move. She shakes her head, continuing.  
"A woman.. Anna?"  
The hispanic woman shakes her head, looking confused. The 'psychic' perseveres.   
"Consuela? Lucita? Julietta? Josephina? Linda? Maria?"  
"His mama! His mama was Maria!"  
"Ah, yes - we have Maria-"

"Obviously." I snap again with simpering sarcasm, and this time she stands, slamming her hands on the table much to the shock of the elderly woman.  
"Who  _is_  that?!" She shrieks, and this time I am sure that she has heard me. I begin to pace over to her, my tone urgent but she cannot see me.  
"My name is Sherlock Holmes." I begin urgently, "And I need your help-"  
"Can you hear it?" The 'psychic' asks the customer, and she shakes her head, perplexed.  
"You can hear me - I need your help!" I continue, and she presses her hands to her ears, beginning to pace.  
"Say my name. Say 'Sherlock Holmes'. Say it. Say my name!" I raise my voice, and she pulls a face, trying to keep me out. I continue.  
"Say my name! Sherlock Holmes! Say-"

"SHERLOCK HOLMES!" She screams eventually, and the elderly woman has had enough. She grabs her twenty pound note and bolts for the door, a surprising agility for her age. The 'psychic' seems to catch her breath, and I lean over the table, exultant as I read her name from a swirling, embossed business card.  _'Madame Irene Adler'._  
  
"What do you want?" She asks weakly, sinking back into her seat.  
"Irene." I say, and I sit opposite her, though I know that she can only hear me. She jumps when she hears her own name. "I need your help. I have a friend in grave danger-"  
"Sherlock Holmes." She whispers, shaking her head in disbelief. "My mum had it. My grandma had it. The gift.." I am not sure whether she is speaking to me or to herself, and I tap my foot impatiently. "But I never had it. Never had it."  
"Please-"  
"Now I have it, I don't think I want it.."  
"Irene Adler, you will listen to me  _now."_ I say sternly, gritting my teeth. She seems to snap out of her disbelieving reverie for a moment.  
"You aren't half bossy for a ghost." She spits, her eyes darting around nervously, trying to place me. "What do you want?"  
"I have a friend in grave danger-"  
"Find somebody else." She pleads, swallowing and curling her fingers into fists. I sigh frustratedly, tiring of this charade.  
"There  _is_ nobody else. I won't leave until you help me. I have all of eternity."  
"What the hell do you want me to do?"  
"I need you to warn him. He's in terrible danger." I think of the man, pacing around the flat with his knife drawn.  
"Why would he listen to me?" She asks, still trying to get out of this. She looks at me, but right through me.  
"You're all I've got. It's just a phonecall. The man who killed me is going back to our apartment. He's going to-"  
"Alright. Alright. But you better god damn leave me alone after. This is.. too weird."

  
_Says the clairvoyant,_ I think sarcastically, but I do not want to test my luck.

 

She pulls out a mobile phone from somewhere inside her beaded dress, and I hurriedly reel off John's mobile number.  
"His name is John. John Watson. And I'm-"  
"Sherlock. Yeah, I got it." She sighs irritably and shakes her head in disbelief once more.

 

She puts the phone on speaker.

'Hello?'  
"John? John Watson?"  
'...Yes?'

It sends a pain through my chest hearing John, his voice dull and empty. I think of him, alone in the flat and my mouth becomes dry. I have to save him. I have to.  
"My name is Irene Adler. I'm a.. I'm a spiritual adviser. Listen, this is going to sound crazy, but I have a message for you from.. Sherlock."  
There is a pause on the other end of the line, and then John hangs up.

I curse and shake my head, standing up from the table.  
"I tried." She says, leaning back in her chair and clicking the phone shut.  
"No." I say simply, my tone curt and stern. "You're going to go over there, and you're going to make him listen."

"Oh, am I indeed?"  
"Obviously."  
"And why's that, Sherlock 'dead man' Holmes?"  
"I know the entire periodic table in song form, and I will recite it until you accompany me back to the flat. I don't sleep, Miss Adler."  
She narrows her eyes, but makes no effort to move.

 

I take a breath.  
"There's antimony, arsenic, aluminum, selenium, and hydrogen and oxygen and nitrogen and rhenium, and nickel, neodymium, neptunium, germanium, and iron, americium, ruthenium-"

It takes less than ten minutes for her to crack.

 

\--


	5. Time Goes By So Slowly

**JOHN**  
  
Why do people have to be so cruel? I leave my phone on the other side of the room in case the stupid woman rings back, and walk back to the sofa, swaddling myself in blankets and burying my face in the sofa cushions. I'm wearing pajama shorts and a vest, with one of his shirts open over the top. Of course, it doesn't fit me, but it still smells like him and I find comfort in it. I know that it's stupid. He'd laugh at me if he saw me, I know he bloody would.

 

My lip trembles at the memory of that stupid woman, how just the sound of his name made my heart leap. But I've heard about these people. Exploiting grief and all that. I'm not an idiot. I haven't moved in the half hour since she rang, though I'd been in the middle of unpacking another box beforehand. That can wait now. It can all wait. I don't care anyway. 

"John! John Watson!"

I sit bolt upright, my cheeks wet and streaking the cushion with damp marks. Who the hell was that? I cautiously get off the sofa and take a step closer to the window, not yet willing to look out.

"Listen John." The voice shouts again, and it echoes. Whoever it is must be standing in the street and yelling up to my window.   
What the hell?  
"I have Sherlock here with me."  
Oh no. No, it's her. That stupid woman from the phone. Why won't everyone just leave me alone?  
"He wants to talk to you. He wants me to talk to you. Please, John Watson."

"Hey lady, why don't you bugger off?" comes a shout from a window a few houses across, and I blink, still hesitating.  
"Why don't you  _bite me_?" She calls back irritably, before shouting back to me, sounding angry.  
"Listen John. He's making me do this. He says - he says right now, you're wearing his shirt. The purple one. And - and he says he knows about the photo. The one of you two at Brighton Pier."  
I gasp and stagger backwards, almost tripping over his armchair.

"I'm tired of this. No, Sherlock! You shut up. I'm going if you don't answer by the time I get to one, John."

I swallow, my eyes finding the buzzer on the wall. I could let her up. Make her leave me alone. See what she wants. I mean, she couldn't possibly know those things..

"Three two one." She says, with no pauses in between. I dash over to the door and hit the buzzer. I'm letting her up. God help me.

 

"Don't blame me for this." She says as she stalks inside, shaking her head at me. She's pretty, but trussed up in some beaded dress that makes her look like a storefront psychic. I fold my arms across my chest, not comfortable with any of this.  
"He made me do it." She continues, turning and planting herself down in the armchair, "He wouldn't stop singing that fucking periodic table song, oh my _god_."

"That's how he got me to take the smaller room." I breathe, my heart skipping a little faster. It was - when we'd first lived together, long before anything had happened between us. The memory makes me ache and I have to sit down, my brow crinkling with uneasy confusion as I lower myself to the sofa.  
She sighs and I look over. At least she looks sympathetic.  
"How did you know those things?" I ask sharply, pulling his shirt a little tighter around my chest.  
"He's here. Sherlock's here with me. In fact he - yes, I am - he says he's sitting right next to you."  
I jump, my eyes flying to the cushion beside me. I don't see a thing. She cut off mid sentence to look sharply over, and I have to admit that I want to believe her.  
"He wants me to get on with it. God, he's impatient." She whines irritably, spotting a picture on the mantlepiece. "This you, Sherlock? Ha.." She runs her thumb over his face, and I want to tell her to put the photograph down. She keeps talking to herself. It's unsettling.  
"Okay - I'm getting on with it! My God!"  
She throws herself back down in the armchair after replacing the picture, and rolls her eyes.  
"John. My name is Irene, and you are in some serious sh- sorry. Sorry. You're in danger."

\--

 

She leaves half an hour later, and I sit there, numb.   
Sherlock was murdered, she says. By a man named Moran. I have to go to the police, she said. She gave me his address, supposedly whittled off by Sherlock as he stood beside her. He murdered Sherlock and he's coming back for something, something in the flat. He doesn't care if I'm collateral damage.

 

It sounds daft. It sounds ridiculous, and yet.. and yet I believe her.   
The way she spoke to him, like he was right there. The way she hurried off, like she didn't even want to be here in the first place. And.. and the address? And.. and Sherlock.

 

\--

"She had a name, an address - everything, Craig!"  
"So what, John? You're going to believe some crazy woman who shows up out of nowhere?"  
"Irene knew things - things nobody else could know-"  
"This is getting deranged, John. We're.. we're at risk of going off the deep end here."   
I pace as I speak into the phone, knowing that Craig is pitying me. Feeling sorry for me. He's trying to understand, at least.

"She said he was just.. he was there, speaking to her!"  
"So you think he was murdered now? John.. John.." His voice changes, and I feel angry and indignant.  
"I'm going to go to the police, he wants me to go to the police. He says he was set up, Craig. Murdered."  
"The police - John, what are you going to tell them? Some townie psychic shows up at your door with messages from the dead?"  
"The address - they can go to - they can.. His name was Moran.. 16A Raywell Block, Brixton - she knew everything, Craig-"  
He heaved a sigh, and John closed his eyes.  
"Listen John. If it bothers you that much, I'll check it out okay? Irene...?"  
"Adler. I am going to the police, Craig."  
"I wouldn't do that just yet. I'll head over there, alright. Call you later."  
"Thanks, Craig. I mean it. Thanks."

  
**SHERLOCK**

After Irene spoke to John, I let her go and stayed with him. She was relieved, but then I didn't promise that I wouldn't bother her again. I will, if I want to. 

 

I hear Craig promise to investigate the address over the phone, obviously anticipating some ruse. I want to scream at him, to tell him to let John just call the police. I do not want either of them going over there without help or back-up. The man is a murderer, after all. I yell and I plead, but neither John or Craig hear. I pray that Craig doesn't get hurt. He is John's only support. It would  kill him to lose more so soon.

 

Frustrated but resigned, I head back out to Brixton - careful to avoid the train ghost carriage - and find Craig walking uncertainly up to the Raywell Block, squinting upwards as if trying to determine how many floors up the murderer lives. Though of course, he won't be expecting to find my killer.

"Be careful, Craig." I warn, though he can't hear me. I walk beside him as he climbs stone stairs, and my heart is pounding when he finally comes to knock on the door of 16A.  _Oh, John - why didn't you just call the police?_

After a few moments, Moran answers the door with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and he raises his eyebrows as he sees Craig stood in his hallway.  
 _Be careful, Craig, please-_

"Boss?"

  
I freeze, blinking. Moran must have it wrong. He must be mistaken. My eyes swivel to Craig, but he has changed before my eyes.  
His expression has darkened, fury in his eyes and the hint of a snarl on his lips. He forces his way inside, pushing Moran aside with a violence that is completely out of character.. When he speaks, it is with an Irish accent, and I begin to fall apart, realising how well and truly fooled I have been. He is not who we think he is. 

"What the fuck is going on, Seb?"

"What'you mean?"

_I thought you were my friend. My best friend. And not just to me; to John. You helped us move into our flat. You come over for dinner. You're the only colleague I can stand. You're.. you're not Craig. You were never Craig._

"Who the fuck have you been talking to?"

"I-"

"Some psychic bitch knows all about you. She knows your name, she knows where you live."

"A lot of women know where I live." Moran shrugs, a cocky smile on his lips but I can see the uncertainty in his eyes. He is scared.  
Craig turns swiftly and grabs the man by the collar, forcing him backwards and up against the wall before hissing in his face.

 

"This is not a joke. These guys are mafia. You don't screw with them. I'll let them take you down like  _that_."  
He clicks his fingers, before releasing Moran, who falls back to his feet with a ragged gasp.

"Jim-"  
"Shut the fuck up. You deal with it. Deal with her. Irene Adler."  
"But I-"  
"I said you deal with it. What the fuck is wrong with you? You killed a man, Moran - what didn't you understand; you were supposed to  _steal his wallet._ "  
"I couldn't-"  
"You didn't even get the fucking thing."   
'Jim' turns on his heel and walks back to the door, his fists clenched by his sides. "If those files aren't wiped tomorrow, you're dead. Fuck, we're both dead. Get your fucking act together."

He slams the door on Moran, and turns, walking briskly from the building.

 

  
I trusted you, I think weakly, a surge of anger making my insides burn.  _I trusted you and you betrayed me, me and John._  
I had a life. I had it all. 

I will bring you down, if it's the last thing I do.  


 

 

**** JOHN

I go to the police, and it's bloody useless. It takes them a matter of minutes to shoot down my story, and within half an hour I'm back at home, feeling like a sap.

 

_'Irene Adler you say? Adler.. Adler.. A. Here we are.. She's got a record dating back years, sir. I'm sorry - insurance fraud, fake IDs.. this goes back quite a while. This 'Moran' was probably some old boyfriend she was trying to get even with. All it would have taken was a root around in your bins, and she'd get all the ammunition she needed. Sometimes, the vulnerable get preyed upon, sir. We're very sorry. Do you need any help getting home..?'_

  
Now, I kick off my shoes and fall onto the sofa, pulling my knees to my chest and trying hard to keep the tears from spilling over my eyelids. I'm an idiot. I have to let go. Sherlock isn't here. He isn't coming back.

 

Craig arrives after about ten minutes and lets himself in. I barely glance up, but his expression is apologetic.  
"S'an old couple that live at that address." He says quietly, sitting himself next to me and putting an arm around my shoulders.  
"They didn't know a thing. I'm sorry, John.. I really am."

He's brought coffee, and he hands me one. Somehow in the shuffle, the lid pops off his own and he's instantly drenched in the stuff.  
"Oh - crap-" He's tearing off the shirt, and it must have been burning him. He sighs and I give a weak smile. He rolls his eyes at his misfortune, and takes the shirt into the kitchen. When he returns, I've fetched him one of Sherlock's. I swallow, uncertain about giving it to him.   
"Sorry.. I.. I don't have to wear this.." He says quietly, but I shake my head.  
"Someone should get some use out of his things."

 

Craig shrugs it on but leaves it unbuttoned. He walks over to me and sits down, putting his arm around my shoulders again and pulling me close.   
"I'm really sorry about all this John. And that stupid.. stupid woman."

I shake my head, my lip trembling.  
"It's not your fault. I.. I got taken in by it all. I thought.. I really thought.."  The tears are spilling over, my breaths catching in my throat, and I'm crying onto Craig's chest. He holds me, and I feel grateful for him. At least he tried. He tried for me. 

It takes me a few minutes, but I can finally stop myself crying. The humiliation will last a bit longer, though. Craig strokes his fingers over my shoulder, his other hand cupping my cheek. He smells like Sherlock. The shirt smells like Sherlock.  _Sherlock_. His eyes are sympathetic and concerned on mine, and before I know what's happening, he's leaning forward, and his eyes are on my lips and I..

There's an almighty smash and I leap backwards, my heart hammering. On the floor lays the photograph from earlier. The photograph of me and Sherlock. The frame is cracked. It moved by itself. Oh.. Oh.. No.

No.

"I need you to leave now."  
I say, my voice shaking but stern. 

"John.." Craig begins quietly, but I'm backing away from him, dropping to the floor and clawing at the glass, trying to fix it. Desperately trying to fix it.

"No. Please." I say, and he nods, reluctantly heading for the door. He's still wearing Sherlock's shirt.

 

 

\---

 


	6. Time Can Do So Much

** SHERLOCK **

****

I am utterly livid with anger. 

Of course, I follow 'Craig' back to the flat, where he spins John a web of lies about the address. John is already disheartened from his encounter with the police, and I find myself hating the local authority even more than when I was alive. He didn't speak to Lestrade personally, I gather. Probably too embarrassed to recount such a story; and the D.I would undoubtedly have sent him home with pity.

 

When John is examining the text on his coffee cup, I see this Jim fellow calculatedly tip off the lid of his own and glance at John before he pours it over himself. Immediately, I realise why and I am yelling, cursing this despicable imbecile as John gives him one of my shirts to wear. My shirts. The uncertainty in John's eyes should be enough to stop him from wearing it, but of course it gives the man some gross sense of pleasure.

Moments later, and John is breaking down once more. Jim holds him against his chest, and the shadow of the smile that appears on his lips makes me feel nauseous, physically sick with my fury and sense of betrayal. We let him into our lives, and this is how he repays us. I wonder if he has ever truly been a friend at all, or had merely associated with me to get the codes. I am getting a better sense of the plan that he has in mind, and the discrepancies at NSY are making sense. It is clever, and yet brutally despicable.   


  
"John.. no.."  
The words are quiet, disbelieving as they slip from my lips, and I cannot bear to watch this. Craig - Jim - runs his fingers over my lover's shoulder, his hand on his cheek. They are leaning closer and John is vulnerable, so terribly vulnerable.  
A wild anger bursts through me and I cannot control it; it is visceral and burning hot, and I throw myself at the pair.

Of course, I fly straight through them - but my fingers catch the photoframe that has been left on the coffee table. It is knocked to the floor and the glass smashes. John jumps back, is shocked, is reviled by himself and I am both relieved and confused, furious and impressed.

He asks Craig sternly to leave, and I glow with pride, storming after him to yell a string of sarcastic obscenities. John remains on the floor, his fingers cut as he tries to fix the mess, and I despair for him again. 

 

But he is still in danger.   
Perhaps I can learn to harness this power, to touch things, move things. There is still time to save him.

I know where I need to go.

 

\--

 

The tube train ghost is unsurprisingly easy to find. I merely have to cavort around in the correct carriage on the Brixton line, and he appears within moments, screaming and howling. The difficult part is trying to make him stop attacking me for long enough to explain what I need from him. 

 

He holds onto the collar of my shirt and I grip his forearms; he hangs me out of the side of the moving train, and I am phasing through the tunnel walls. It is most unpleasant, but I am shouting my terms and eventually he seems to hear. He tosses me out roughly onto the platform and I land on my hands and knees, before standing to brush myself off.   
"And why should I help you?"  
"Because otherwise I won't leave you alone." I reply curtly, a ringing in my ears from the tunnel. That seems to be a common answer for me in the afterlife. Why do so many already want to be rid of me? I've only been here for five minutes.

He agrees to help me, and I get my first good look at him. He is tall, with long straggled hair and an old business suit. I know immediately that he is not quite sane enough to trust, and yet he is all I have right now. I will make it work.

 

Twenty five minutes later, and we are getting nowhere. The empty cigarette packet that he is trying to make me move is stuck to the concrete as if by glue or cement, and my fingers phase through it like a hologram. I am getting increasingly frustrated and he only laughs maniacally, though it seems after a half hour he is finally becoming impatient.  
"You have to feel it," He growls, making gestures in front of his chest. "Deep, deep down."  
"I can't feel it, I can't even touch it." I reply irritatedly, my hand again flying through the packet.  
"No!" He slams his hands onto a metal bench with a clang. "Feel it,  _inside._ "  
I give him an odd look and pause in my actions.  
"Every feeling you ever felt. Every love, every bit of rage. Feel it. You have to feel it and you have to use it. You can't move things with your hands, you're dead. You move them with the feeling."

It sounds ridiculous, but there may be truth to it. The smashed photograph was indeed in a time of great stress and anger. I try to conjure up those feelings again and it is somewhat easy. Rage at 'Craig' for his betrayal, for my murder and trying to move in on my John.  
The cigarette packet skitters across the floor under my fingers, and I cry out in exultation. The tube train ghost grins, and his teeth are yellowed.   
"Thank you." I shake my head, my words earnest. He tosses an empty can at me and I catch it, I throw it and I am angry, loving, feeling everything. I am powerful.

I feel as though I owe this man something, so I ask him about himself. His expression immediately darkens.  
"Why? Why you wanna know? Who are you? Who sent you here?"  
"Nobody, I-"  
"What, you think I jumped? I was pushed.  _I was pushed!"_  
He is screaming now, and runs away from me, leaps back onto his tube train as it screeches past, and I blink, dumbstruck.

  
I am bemused, but I have bigger things to worry about. I am already at the platform in Brixton, so I head outside, back to Irene's Psychic shop. I need her help again, for what I am planning.

 

\--

 

"I can't hear you - Sherlock! You see what you've done?!"  
I have to admit, it is pandemonium. I can see them, though she cannot. Irene is seemingly alone in a room, and yet there must be ten more ghosts in here with her, all shouting for her attention, all demanding that she visit a loved one or pass on a message.  
"I didn't-" I begin, but she cuts me off, shouting over the noise.  
"As soon as I got back here, here they are! They won't leave me alone. Not even when I go to the loo, my God."  
"Everyone shut up!" I call, and the ghosts fall into a temporary hush. There are people from all different eras here, from the sixties to modern day, and even what I think might be a Victorian era gentleman in the corner. Irene groans gratefully at the silence, resting her forehead in her hands.  
"What do you want now, Sherlock?" She asks wearily, and tell her about Jim and Craig, and his betrayal. I tell her that I was killed for the access codes in my wallet, and that with her help, I can foil the plan. Solve the case, save John. Save her too, as Jim has ordered her death.  
"That's - you got me involved in this mess?! That's not _fair_ , Sherlock-"

A voice cuts her off from the back, dark and drawling, and we both spin to look at the man that has just walked in, a gun held aloft.  
"Life isn't fair." He says. Moran.

"RUN!" I roar, and I use my rage to throw a chair in his direction. It knocks him aside for a moment, and Irene ducks into the back room. I am furious, and I have power. I will teach him a lesson.

He is firing madly into the air, trying to find me. The other ghosts are screaming and jumping, though none of them help. Perhaps none of them can. I send the crystal ball flying in his direction, and then the table, a series of books.. He is crying out with both fear and a bemused anger, and his eyes are wild as he shoots at anything and everything.

Finally, he dashes out of the front door and I make to follow before.. an almighty squeal of brakes, a crash.

I find my way outside and within a few moments, Irene is at my side and gasping at the sight that befalls us. Moran lies, his body twisted at an odd angle in the road. He is blood soaked, and the windscreen of the car in front of him is smashed. He must have run into the road to escape me. He is dead. I did not mean for this to happen, and yet I cannot force myself to feel remorse.

 

The police are called, but Irene and I are running.  
There is nothing we can do, and we can still solve this case.  
Craig - Jim - will not get out of this scot free.

 


	7. Are You Still Mine?

SHERLOCK  
  
I let Irene go home, confident that she will be alright for an hour or so now that Moran is dead. I have work to do, though I have to work quickly. I do not know when Craig - Jim - is planning to hack open the system with my password, but it must be soon.  
  
Within half an hour of us leaving the Psychic shop, I am at Jim's door, and I walk through seamlessly, like wading through butter. I am getting better at this, though it might help that I feel so angry all the time. When I reach his apartment and subsequently glide through that door too, I can hear him talking in his office, and the rage bubbles deep inside. But now is not the time for vengeance.

 

Hurriedly, I search notebooks, folders left on the side. I am finding no clues of his plan, and it quickly becomes irritating. I am impatient. He cannot win. Already, he is trying to steal everything from me. In my rage, I accidentally knock a set of keys to the floor, and he comes pacing out of the office, the phone to his ear.

"Hold on, Mr. Balsistrari-"  
 _You traitor._  
"-No, no it was nothing. Carry on."  
 _I despise you._  
"So whose account do I use? They'll figure me out in a second if I use Sherlock's access code for the actual- I.. Yes. Yes, I could do that. In what name? Yes, yeah I guess that'll work. Rita.. Miller.."  
He pauses to note down the name, and I commit it to memory. He already has my access codes, I can see them written above. He must have swiped my wallet from the apartment on one of his 'visits' with John. It seems that Moran was rendered useless after all. I am seething with anger, but I try and contain it. He is telling me his plan, speaking aloud like an utter idiot. I can still catch him out; but he will act soon.

 

"Alright. It'll be transferred tonight. I'm going to the station at 9. No, they'll all have gone by then. Ok. Yeah. Oh - and Mr. Balsistrari? I'm sorry for all that happened. There won't be any more problems. Cheers."

I am already halfway out of the door by the time he hangs up, and I recite the name. Rita Miller. Rita Miller. Rita Miller.

I will save John, and I will catch out this traitor. I hope the mafia skin him.

 

** JOHN **

 

I'm sitting on the floor of the apartment and scrubbing hard at the floor with a bristle brush, trying desperately - trying too hard - to wash away the faint bluish tinge that has coated this patch of the wooden floor since that night with the foam. That stupid, amazing night that has no bloody place in my life anymore, or in this apartment.

Sherlock's gone. He's dead.

Just like that, the tears are spilling over again and I drag the back of my hand over my eyes, the bandage rough on my raw skin. I cut myself on the glass trying to clean up the broken photograph. The photograph of me and Sherlock. The one that smashed by itself.. bloody threw itself to the floor when Craig and I were about to.. when we almost..

I feel sick, I hate myself, I can't believe that I even considered such a thing, even for a second. I know why, though. Of course I do. Craig has been there for me. He's been my support throughout all of this. He didn't mean to spill his coffee, and I offered to give him that shirt.. And he's so bloody kind. But then why does it feel so wrong? So.. terribly, awfully bloody wrong.

I  grit my teeth and I scrub harder, the brush scratching along the wooden floor and hot tears streaming down my face. 

All of a sudden, the old paint-spattered radio that I keep on top of the fridge sputters into life, and I pause, my hands sodden and aching.  
 _  
'I need your love.. I need your love..'_

It's that song. It's that song, of all songs.  
 _  
'God speed your love, to me..'_

My lip trembles, and I fall backwards onto my arse, tossing down the scrubbing brush and bursting into loud, uncouth sobs. I miss him. I miss him so much. Weeks ago, we were sat in this very spot, arms slick with blue foam and swaying to this song. And now..  
And now..

 

_'Lonely rivers flow, to the sea. To the sea..'_

  
"Sherlock.." I utter raggedly, and I don't know why. 

_'To the open arms of the sea..'_  


  
I pick up the scrubbing brush again, sniffling, but I can't bring myself to scrub away our memories any more. 

_'Lonely rivers sigh, wait for me, wait for me..'_  


 

I just sit, and I listen to the rest of the song. I don't even know why. It's silly. It's daft. He'd snort at me if he knew, roll his eyes. But I can't do this. Not without him. I can't do this, I can't have a life.   
"I miss you." I croak, and my lip trembles again.

_'I'll be coming home, wait for me..'_  


 

When I finally get up from the wet floor and stagger over to the radio, the song has ended. No radio presenter picks up, and no new song starts. I realise with a start that it wasn't even plugged in.

 

 

\--

 

  
**SHERLOCK**

I knew immediately that it was a bad idea to drop back in on John, but I couldn't help it. I am as drawn to him in death as I am in life, and I cannot bear to be without him. Even for a few short hours. He was trying to clean the floor, and I kindly reminded him of our evening together. I feel as though perhaps I misjudged things, though. It only seemed to make him more upset.

Shaken, I leave and head for New Scotland Yard. Irene is already there as I arrive, as per my request. Of course, she looks disgruntled and I raise my eyebrows at her attire. 'Smart', I told her. She needs to look sophisticated, in a well paid job. She is wearing a fitted crimson suit with high heels and tights with a black seam in the back. As soon as I make a comment, she begins to gripe at me in earnest, so I do not say any more. As irritating as she may be, she is willing to help me, and I must appreciate it.

 

Seeing John has spurred me on. I have to do this. We head inside, and Irene repeats after me to the blonde receptionist that I am familiar with.  
"Say - Hello, I'm here to speak with D.I Lestrade about the temp. I.T work."  
"Hello! I'm here to speak with D.I Le Shard ab-"  
"LESTRADE."  
"-D.I Lestrade about the temp. work."  
"I.T!"  
"She gets the picture!" Irene hisses, before plastering a smile on her face. The receptionist looks at her like she's crazy, before quietly putting a call through to Lestrade. Irene tries to hit me subtly, though of course she does not know where I am.

Lestrade invites her up, and when we arrive on his floor, I notice both his own eyes and the eyes of his colleagues go to Irene's figure. I roll my eyes, and she smiles rather coyly. I suppose I now see the the reason for her outfit choice.

"How can I help you, Miss..?"  
"Act shocked that he doesn't remember you." I mutter, and she gives a look of mock surprise. "Greg." I add.  
"Oh -  _Greg_! Don't tell me that you don't remember me!"  
"It's me, Rita. Rita Miller." I mutter again, and she repeats after me.

Lestrade obviously has no idea who she is, but to his credit, he accepts her almost immediately.  
"Of  course, Rita! Wow. How long has it been?"  
I had deduced that this would happen. Lestrade undoubtedly meets hundreds in the line of business, and must similarly have a wide circle of distant family friends from his marriage. I decide to go with both.  
"Make out that you're a friend of Jayne's. Years.  It's been years. He has a child - Alex. You used to work here too."  
"Oh God, it must be years! How  _is_  Jayne? And hell, has this place changed!"  
"Jayne's fine, actually-"  
"And Alex, he must be-"  
"SHE!" I yell, and Irene jumps out of her chair.  
"She, sorry, sorry. How is she? Alex?" She blinks innocently, and Lestrade swallows, before smiling again.  
"Fine. She's doing well.. Is there something I can help you with today Rita?"  
I lean close to Irene's ear, speaking fervently. "Tell him you need to access the NSY computers to get onto your old account - you left some pictures on it from back in the day."  
"Oh, well Gregory. Aren't I in a little bit of a predicament? You see, little Chloe's birthday is coming up-"  
I scowl. She is overselling it.  
"-And I just have to get back onto my old account to get my pictures back. All those baby pictures, Gregory!"  
She gives him her best moroseful eyes, and I raise my eyebrows. 

 

He falls for it hook, line and sinker. Within minutes, we are being guided back to a PC, and Lestrade is inquiring coolly after her husband and children.  
"Oh, no - Ray and I divorced years ago." She croons, before giving a simpering smile. Obviously, she knows what he wants to hear. I can tell that he would like to stay around for longer, and speak with her more intently, but luckily for us he is called into a meeting.

"Do you have your access codes?" He asks finally, obviously reluctant to leave. Irene pauses and I hiss 'yes'.  
"Of course!" She trills, and he gives her a warm smile. He notes down his phone number for her before disappearing into the conference room and I make a noise of disgust in my throat.

"Oh shut it." She mutters, sitting down heavily in the chair. "Now tell me what to do."

I reel off my access code - the one that Jim now has - and Irene inputs it into the system with my username. The NSY database loads, and we hurriedly create a new account.  
"And the name?"  
"Rita Miller, obviously." I sigh impatiently, and she pulls a face at me before tapping on the keys.  
"Ok. Now what?"  
"Now I need you to give Rita Miller a full access account, granted with Lestrade's permission. His access code is 9889973."  
It takes her a few minutes, but she makes the change with my instruction.  
"And?"  
"Lock the account. Rita Miller. It can't be accessed by anyone else. And then delete my own."  
"Sherlock Holmes?"  
"Well, obviously."  
"Shut up."  
She deleted his account with a few clicks, and the answer to his security question. His first pet. Of course, a trick question. The answer was Mycroft. 

  
"And now?"  
"We're done. You have to get out of here."

Irene nods, turning off the computer. I guide her past the conference room and back into the lift, and she waggles her fingers at Lestrade through the half frosted glass. He blushes, and I shake my head.

I am exultant.   
My account is deleted, and the access codes will no longer work.  
Jim cannot use my authority to create a new account, nor can he delete any files.

 

As Irene disappears off in a cab, who should pull up in his car?

'Craig' saunters into the building smoothing his tie, looking the picture of confidence.  
Of course, he thinks that he will soon be in the favour of London's most powerful mob; gangsters and mafia alike.

 

 

But I know better.

 


	8. I Need Your Love

**JOHN**  
  
There's a knock at the door, and I think it must be Craig. I called him earlier to apologise for the night before, to tell him that I wasn't thinking straight - but he told me he was too busy. He must still be feeling awkward, I decide. I walk over to the door sheepishly and tug it open, expecting to find him standing there with Chinese food, or a couple of beers.  
  
Instead, I find her.  
  
I try and close the door immediately, but she pushes her way inside.  
  
"I'm sorry John, I didn't know where else to go. My shop's trashed. He hasn't come back yet?"  
  
I don't know what the hell she's talking about, and blink at her, wringing a tea towel between my fingers. I'd been washing dishes when she knocked. Well, mugs mostly. I haven't really been eating.  
  
"Oh, sorry. I forgot you don't 'believe'." She waves her hands around, almost mocking herself and I must be looking at her like she's crazy. Maybe she is crazy. Maybe I should be feeling sorry for her, but it's difficult when she's making a mockery of my life. My grief.  
  
"I want you to leave." I say gruffly, my lips settling into a thin line. 

"Well." She replies and plonks herself down into an armchair. His armchair. "I'm not. So you better put the kettle on. Why don't you tell me about the radio, hmm?"

I go white. I practically feel the colour draining from my face. I just stand for a few moments, wondering how she could possibly know. Finally, I nod mutely and walk to the kitchen.  
Maybe she  _is_ exploiting me. I can't say that I care anymore.

 

\--

 

** SHERLOCK **

 

I'm humming to myself as Jim sits down behind a computer. He's in the deserted basement with the printing equipment, obviously knowing that nobody would be down here at this hour. He is grinning, and he pulls the slip of note paper from his pocket, with my access codes and 'RITA MILLER' written upon it in his messy scrawl.

The computer finally loads, and I am impatiently pacing, my eyes fixed on him, waiting for that moment.  
He inputs the access code and my user name, and hits enter.  
'Account not registered' appears on his screen.  
He tries again, and then a third time, and then a fourth.  
"No.. no, no no.." He is muttering urgently, a vein bulging in his forehead. He is straightening the paper, typing them in again. It doesn't work.  
I am laughing, laughing in his face as he takes out his phone, placing a seemingly innocent call through to Lestrade.  
"D.I, hi - Yeah - Sorry, I just remembered. I checked Sherlock's account today, just for security, and it didn't seem to work? Have you had anyone new accessing the accounts in the past day or so?"  
"Sorry, who is this?"  
"It's Craig. Craig from I.T."  
"Oh, hi Craig. Let me have a check for you through the main system. Only a higher authority would have been able to delete Sherlock's account, he was full access..."  
There is a pause, and Jim begins to tap his foot impatiently. I smirk at the sight of the sweat patches forming beneath the sleeves of his expensive shirt.  
"..Ah, here we go. Yes, Sherlock's account was closed today. By a - oh - Rita Miller. Perhaps she knew him. She was full access, anyway. Lovely woman."  
Jim freezes, his eyes widening. His words come in a quiet breath, catching in his throat. "Rita.. Miller?"  
"Yeah. Maybe it was a mistake. Well whatever, it needed deleting. God knows what could happen if the wrong person got hold of that..... Craig? You still there? Craig?"  
"What did she look like? Rita Miller?"  
"Oh, long dark hair. Beautiful red suit. Young woman-"

Jim hang ups, and slams his hands onto the desk, roaring with indignation. I burst into exultant laughter.

Moments later, a stack of papers fly from the end of the computer desk, and Jim looks up, his brows pulling together in bemusement. Next, the printers all fire into action at once, before shutting off almost immediately. He jumps, and begins to spin on the spot, looking for the culprit.

"Who's fucking doing that? This isn't a joke!"  
On the computer, I tap out my name slowly.

S H E R L O C K   
He inhales sharply and backs away, walking into the wall, eyes bulging. I send his desk chair crashing over and skidding across the floor and he screams, actually screams.  
I tap out more letters.

M U R D E R E R

Jim is tripping over the fallen chair, scrambling for the door, and I am following. I have caught him out. I have got him.  
He won't get a penny from his investors. He will be lucky if he escapes with his life.

 

He gets into a taxi and asks for Brixton. He is going after Irene.  
But I know where she is.

 

\--

 

  
**JOHN**

"I know it sounds crazy." Irene sighs, and her eyes are sad when they find mine. I am confused, disbelieving.. This is total rubbish. It can't be true. Craig? The Craig that Sherlock and I have known and trusted for so long? The Craig that has helped me through so much?  
"He said you wouldn't believe me." She adds, clutching the mug of tea that I have given her. "But his henchman tried to kill me. The same one that.. killed Sherlock, apparently."  
"This is nuts." I mutter weakly, shaking my head and rubbing at my stubbled jaw. It doesn't make any bloody sense.  
"He wanted the codes to wipe important files. Murders. He's a criminal. A pretty big one, as it goes." She's said this already, tried to explain it all. I'm losing faith by the second. I stand up, unable to take any more.

 

"I can't - this is ridiculous! Craig is the best friend that I have right now, and I won't-"  
"He's here." Irene breathes, and she smiles, sitting up straighter. "Sherlock's here."  
"What?" I squeak, my anger deflating. I glance around, seeing nothing of course. I still can't believe her. "Sherlock's dead." I add, angrily, defensively.

"He says he'll prove it to you." She says, standing up, her fists clenched and a smile on her face. She's obviously bloody excited. It's unnerving. "He.. he says, you're wearing the t shirt that he spilt hydrogen peroxide on. And.. and the socks that your sister bought you for Christmas."

My lip begins to tremble, and I croak at her indignantly.  
"How.. how are you doing that? How do you know that?"  
"And he's.. he's looking around for something-"

I almost fall over from shock as a button skitters across the floor. It popped off one of Sherlock's shirts the other day, and I was looking for it for twenty minutes before I gave up. It appears from under the sofa and rolls across the hardwood, before raising off the ground completely and coming to rest in my outstretched hand.

 

My jaw drops, my eyes wide as they find Irene's pleased gaze.  
"See? I told- Oh, oh.. he wants me to tell you that he loves you."

My expression crumples, and I close my fingers around the button.  
"Sherlock would never say that." I murmur, my eyes finding the floor.

She looks sharply to her left, muttering to herself. "Add-eye-yew? What the hell is-"

"And I, you?"  
I ask breathlessly, my eyes alight again. "Is that what he said? And I, you?!"  
She shrugs. "I guess."

My resolve crumbles and my legs shake where I stand.  
"Sherlock?" I dare to whisper, my eyes skimming blearily over the apartment.

"He.. he says he's standing in front of you." Irene says quietly, and she sounds close to tears herself. "He says.. he says he's holding your hand."

I turn my hand palm up, and look down at it, my heart hammering in my chest. My eyes are wet. This is crazy. It's too crazy.   
But..   
"I believe." I whisper, and a sense of awe blossoms in my chest. 

I barely hear what Irene says when she next speaks, but she seems agitated about something.  
"I swear, if you take more than two minutes.. I'm only doing this because the two of you are damn cute. It's breaking my heart, for God's sake."  
I look at her and she gives an exaggerated sigh.  
"I'm going to let him.. use my body. Just for a minute. My mum used to be able to do it, so I guess I probably can too. Just.. walk into me. And hurry up about it."

 

 

I'm confused, but too in awe to ask, to make any sort of comment. My heart is pounding against my ribs, and I just watch her..  
She closes her eyes and holds out her arms, and after a split second she looks down at herself, as if disgusted by her own body. And then she looks up.

As her eyes find me, they are so alight with emotion, so warm and almost liquid.. I know immediately that she is no longer Irene. That she is helping us; giving us the greatest gift, if only for a few moments.  
I can say goodbye.

 

She holds out a hand, and says my name with such loving inflection that I have to believe that she is Sherlock. That Sherlock is here with me right now. I take a step forward, and as soon as my hand finds hers, she is him. I look at her, and I see pale skin, high cheekbones, tumbling dark curls and eyes that shine like the moon. He is mine, and I am his.

His other hand comes to rest on my cheek, and it is only now that I realise the tears are coursing down my face. I can't look anywhere but in his eyes, and we begin to sway to music that only we can hear. It's that song. Of course, it's that song. Only very faintly. It's our song, now. It will forever be our song.  
"I'm going to miss you so much." I breathe, and his eyes are wet too. The music is sweet, and his thumb grazes my cheek, wiping away another tear.   
"Obviously." He replies, but his voice is quiet, almost hoarse. It is how I remember it; like molten velvet in my ears, and God, it's been so long. A bitter chuckle escapes me at his retort, and my bottom lip is trembling again. "I.." He begins, and our eyes lock; emotion and need, and goodbyes that neither of us should ever have had to say.

A hammering knock at the door breaks the perfect spell, and we spring apart. The music has stopped. My hand still feels warm, from his. All at once, Irene is there again, blinking as if disoriented and backing away from the door, frightened.  
"John? Open up. It's J- Craig. It's Craig."

My heart is still pounding, my cheeks still wet.  
"N-no!" I rasp angrily, knowing who he truly is. What he's done to us. To Sherlock.

Irene gasps, looking sharply to her right. Sherlock has told her something.   
"He's got a gun.." She whines desperately, looking urgently to me. I spin back to face the door as he begins to throw his weight against it. He'll get in; the latch won't hold for very long. I am frozen, still reeling from what just happened. 

"I'm coming in whether you like it or not. Where is she? I'll kill all of you.. _Where are my codes?"_  
Craig's voice is gruff through the door, and I back away.

 

\--

 

  


	9. God Speed Your Love To Me

**SHERLOCK**  
  
I am still astounded by the dance; at being able to hold John again, to have him as my own. It was single-handedly the most openly loving and heartbreaking moment of my entire life - and afterlife - and yet it is bittersweet. 

 

Jim tears through the moment like a knife through skin, and we spring apart. I am thrown out of Irene's body and land sprawled on the floor, weak and barely able to get to my feet. I would not change that experience for the world, but it has drained me. Jim is shouting things, and John and Irene are stood frozen and terrified. A ripple of anger runs through me, and it fuels my incentive to climb to my feet and run for the door.

I phase through, and I see the gun in his hand. The mussed flop of his hair. I can smell the alcohol lingering on him. This is a man staging a last ditch attempt to save himself from a brutal end, his rage fuelled by his drug of choice. Whiskey, it seems.  
I jolt back through the door and am beside Irene in a second, informing her quietly that he has a gun. Of course, she squeals the same to John, and they both turn, horrorstruck, back to face the door.

 

Jim kicks it again, throws his body weight against it, and another flash of anger burns within me. I am becoming more powerful again. I only have to think about John, and saying goodbye; our hands intertwined and our eyes wet.. and I feel that I could take down a house. I am powerful. I am angry, and I am in love, and he will not lay a finger on John.

 

The door is thrown open, wood splintering at the hinges. Irene screams and ducks, and John flinches, taking a step back and holding his arms before his face.

 

"RUN!" I roar desperately, and Irene repeats my command a split second later, seizing John's arm and pulling him down the hall. I throw an armchair at Jim, and he is unsteady on his feet. It only knocks him for long enough for them to run into the bedroom, and then he is staggering after them, the gun held aloft.

 

\--

 

** JOHN **

  
My heart is hammering in my chest, and I can't see straight, can't think straight. Irene and I stand with our backs against the bedroom door to keep it closed, though I soon pull her away. If he took a shot at the door, it'd go right through the wood. We'd be done for. Instead we dash over to the window, and Irene is scrabbling at the latches, trying to pull it open.

I am somewhere between a state of shock, terrible fear and terrible anger.  
Craig. My Craig. Sherlock's favourite colleague, and one of my best friends. He was never who he said he was. No wonder he could put up with us longer than the rest. He wanted us. He needed us. He had Sherlock killed for some stupid little piece of paper. The injustice of it. The indignity. It isn't fair. I hate him.

Out in the living room, we can hear thumps and slams with the occasional grunt. Sherlock must be throwing things at him, trying desperately to keep him away; to give us a chance to escape. Shots begin to fire and I feel a heartstopping panic - but then, Sherlock is already dead. The thought brings me crashing back to Earth and my lip trembles again as I think about holding his hand, seeing the tears form in his eyes. I've never seen him cry before. Not really. Not unless it was for a case, or for show.

"John? A little help here? Please!"  
Irene's frantic voice brings me back to the moment, and I take her hands away from the latches, opening them quickly and beginning to push the old window open as far as it will go. Heavy footsteps are crashing down the hall towards the bedroom and Irene is screaming at me, pushing me out into the open air. I have to scramble onto the windowsill into the cold night, my breath in icy gusts before me. My hands are flat against the brick wall, and I tell myself not to look down.

Irene begins to head out after me, but the door of the bedroom bursts open and he is thundering towards the window with an expression that combines glee, madness and fury.   
"Irene!" I call, my hand reaching for hers, trying to pull her out after me - but he grabs at her ankle. She is pulled roughly back into the room with a shriek, and smacks her head on the windowsill in the process. I inhale sharply as I hear the crack and duck back around into view, just in time to see him crouching over her with his hands around her throat. She isn't conscious, but he doesn't seem to recognise that fact.  
"I want my codes!" He screams, his voice ragged and furiously desperate. "Give me the fucking codes!"

 

\--

 

**SHERLOCK**

 

I could not delay him for long, and I follow him into the bedroom when he finally escapes my furniture ambush. I am praying that John and Irene got away; fervently hoping that they have climbed out and somehow found their way to the ground. Perhaps they are running, finding a cab, getting as far away from here as possible..

 

Of course, that is not what happens. I phase through the wall just in time to see him violently tug Irene from the window, and she hits her head rather badly. I hear John gasp and I yell at him, I curse his loyalty as he peeks around the window frame and screams;   
"STOP!" as Jim fixes his hands around Irene's throat.

 

Jim looks up, and dives for John, wrapping his hands around his torso and dragging him back into the room, the window crashing shut behind them. I have my hands on the cabinet, poised to throw it; but the pair are too closely entwined - if I take action, John might be hurt. If I don't, John might be hurt anyway. Furious, I instead aim ornaments at Jim's face; a photo frame, a ceramic cat, whatever I can get my hands on.

With an indignant roar, Jim lunges for his gun and brings it to John's temple, his hand still a vice grip on my lover's shoulder.  
I freeze, still holding an alarm clock aloft.   
 _No.. Not John - let him go. Let. Him. Go._  


  
_"_ I'll kill him, Sherlock." Jim hisses, his eyes darting around the room as he tries to find me. "Don't you think I won't. I want those codes. I know it was you. Write them. Write them down. I'll kill him,  I swear to God."

John just closes his eyes, as if he is resigning himself to his own death. He knows that the codes are long gone, the accounts deleted. Somehow, he appears more relaxed as if this is what he has been waiting for. And I know that he has, these past few weeks.  
The sight of him, so eager to give up.. it is nauseating, and just like that, I snap.

I soar towards the pair, my teeth gritted against an almighty and raging scream. My hands hit Jim squarely in the chest and he is thrown backwards, the gun tossed against the wall. The shock makes him release John, and my lover falls heavily to the floor, where Irene is stirring with a moan.

Jim and I crash through the window, but we do not fall down into the street. I am laying atop him on the shattered glass of the windowsill, and when I spring to my feet, so does he.

"Sherlock?" His voice is shocked, angry and disbelieving and his eyes roam over me. He can see me. How is it that he..

Oh.

Oh.

I look past him, to the windowsill where his body still lies, impaled on thick shards of glass. Thick puddles of blood flower his dark shirt, and his eyes are wide and staring up at the sky. 

\--

 


	10. Lonely Rivers Flow To The Sea

**JOHN**  
  
I don't see it happen. I hear the smash of the window, and the gun clattering to the floor - and then silence. I clamber to my feet, having been thrown down at Sherlock's attack, and a strangled gasp escapes me as I turn to look back at the window.  
  
Irene shakily stumbles over to join me, one hand held to her pounding head and the other held in shock to her mouth.   
"He's dead.." She whispers, and I nod, breathing hard. 

 

And then all at once, it happens. A thick crack suddenly snaps the floorboards between us, and Irene and I leap apart, glancing down. The cracks begin to spring up across the room, each one loud and juddering, and we have to sit on the bed to escape them, staggering back in confusion.   
Before we know it, a thick black flame licks up between the cracks and we both scream, shrinking away from the intense heat and supernatural presence.   
"I.. I've heard about this." Irene whimpers, and we watch, distressed as the burning ebony fire engulfs Craig's glass-impaled body, flinching slightly as his likeness appears to writhe, silhouetted in the flames.

And then, it is gone. The fire, the cracks - the body remains, but it is white. Empty, I realise.   
I breathe hard, and Irene and I look at each other for a long few seconds, trying to come to terms with what we just witnessed.

"Sherlock?" I say finally, my voice weak.

 

 

** SHERLOCK **

****

I see now what the old fellow at the hospital meant about 'going down'. Jim has indeed gone the opposite direction, and I suppose that I am not surprised, if in awe of the process. I stand in the shadows of the bedroom, watching, and when it is over, all three of us are in a dark and dumbstruck silence.

Eventually, John speaks, my name croaking from his lips as if a question.

 

"Yes." I say quietly, and his head snaps around to look at me, his eyes widening. 

"Sherlock." He breathes again, and gets to his feet. He is looking right at me. He can see me. 

 

I do not know how. If I believed in such things, I would call it a miracle. Perhaps I am starting to believe.

 

Irene's eyes widen aswell, and she gives a disbelieving half chuckle, staring at me as if it is the first time she has seen me. It is, I remember rather suddenly. I cannot dwell on her; John stands before me, and I can barely tear my eyes away from him.

 

We take a few steps towards each other, and I hold out my hands. I notice with surprise that they are a bright white, whiter than they have ever been in the afterlife. My brow furrows in confusion, and then instantly smooths as realisation fills me.

 

I am going  _on._  
And this really is goodbye.

 

 

"I have to go, John." I say quietly, gently. John's expression crumples for just a moment, but then he returns to me, and he is nodding, even trying to fix his mouth into a bittersweet smile.

"I know." He breathes, and takes my extended hands. I can feel his warmth, though his skin looks odd against my glowing pallor. He pulls me close, and my hands slide along his forearms, past his shoulders, and my fingers are stroking against his cheeks, already wet with tears.

There is so much that we need to say; that we cannot say. I, especially have never been talented in the art of revealing my feelings, and yet now I feel stripped bare in front of him. My eyes say everything that I cannot. The fingers that wipe away his tears tell him that I care deeply for him; the tight set of my lips as I swallow back tears of my own tells him that I will miss him beyond words.

 

On the bed, I can see Irene sobbing silently into her hands, and I know that she too has been taken in by the tragedy of our tale. After all, we have shared a body, if only for a few moments. She has helped us beyond measure, and I have never been more grateful to a friend. A true friend. I smile in her direction; a true, warm smile that was rare for me even in life. She returns it with trembling lips, and I turn back to John. My John.

 

I can feel it within; it is a light, a gentle pureness that somehow manages to be all-consuming. It is growing bigger, and soon it will swallow me. I will walk out of this world, and I will leave my John behind. But he will know that I am at peace.  
I wish that I did not have to go, but it is my time. I see that now. In fact, I see a lot, now. I am seeing in abundance; the fragility of life, the importance of love, the fruitlessness of fear and anger.

 

Most of all, I feel love. So much love. It is rather overwhelming.

My eyes find John, and his tears continue to roll wordlessly down his cheeks. I lean forward and press my lips to his own, and we stand like that for a few moments, sharing our feelings without uttering a word. His lips are soft and warm, and I will miss it. 

I will miss him. I will love him, I know, for eternity. For longer; for all that there is.

 

"I love you." I say quietly as we finally pull back and my voice is steady.

John gives me a sad smile; he raises his hand softly to my cheek and strokes his fingers across the skin that is now lighting up the bedroom. His eyes are earnest and warm, and I swallow. I am not scared; I am not sad. 

I am loved, and I love.

****

"And I, you." He says quietly, and I cannot help the smile that finds its way onto my lips, mirroring his own.

  
It begins to happen with his hand still pressed gently to my cheek. The white light that I feel within is taking over me, pressing to my heart, filling my chest, and I can no longer feel John, no longer see him or the bedroom.

I am floating in a sea of bright light; of brilliance, of peace and love.

"It's amazing, John." I breathe, unseeing. "It's breathtakingly beautiful."

"Goodbye, Sherlock." I hear distantly, an echoing whisper in the white silence.


	11. I'll Be Coming Home, Wait For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [BONUS CHAPTER]

 

  
** JOHN **

I am sitting on the edge of my bed, and I feel tired. So terribly tired. 

I manage to take my slippers off and bring up my legs onto the sheets, and as I lay back I feel the familiar rush of dizziness that always seems to keep me awake at night. It is nearly over, I know. 

Today is my eighty seventh birthday.  
The family have visited already. I have fourteen grandchildren, and even two great grandchildren.   
My own children have long since grown up, and are becoming old themselves. Everyone has visited. 

It has been a grand birthday, all in all. I have visited Mary's grave, and Sherlock's. I have laid flowers, as I have done every week since Sherlock's death all those years ago, and on Mary's - my wife, who gave me my children, and who I loved dearly.

I have lived a long, and happy life and now I am ready to go.  
Irene visited today, too. She too lives in the carehome. She loves it. She swindles the old men out of their pension money, and plays poker for extra dessert. She is a good old friend, and I will miss her.

 

I lay back on the pillow, and I take a deep breath. I did not take my pills last night, or this morning, or at lunch time.  
It is only a matter of time, now.  
There will be an outcry from my family, but they will go on and they will repair themselves. It is my time to go, and it's been coming for a while. I am at peace with the world, and the world is at peace with me.

 

I can hardly believe it when I feel myself beginning to fade; my heart is stuttering, skipping beats and thudding erratically in my chest. I start to become frightened. Have I made a terrible mistake? Am I going to suffer through a painful death?

And then, there it is.

His hand.

It is undoubtedly Sherlock's hand; I would know the slender fingers and smooth curve of his palm, even after all these years.

 

He is holding my hand, and he is telling me not to be afraid. That it is illogical to be afraid. Of course, only he would say that. Bloody idiot.  
My fear melts away when I open my eyes, when I see him sitting beside me in his glowing pallor and smiling, so warmly. 

He is happy, and he looks exactly the same as when I last saw him. That night, I cried and cried, but I knew that my love was at rest. He was peaceful.

_I love you_ , I try and say, but I cannot move. It is happening.  
His smile deepens anyway. _I know_ , he mouths and he takes me in his arms.

I feel a tremendous warmth; a bright white light and a love that seems to surpass any pain.

_And I you_ , he murmurs quietly against my skin, and we are together again.

 

We float into the light with a soft chuckle from me, and he is still smiling, still holding my hands in his own.

  
We are together again, and it is as though we have never been apart.   
Our song plays quietly around us, and I know that I am finally home.

 


End file.
